“You were lacking information. And you have a weakness for this thing. There, again, he saw what I did not. He has been one step ahead of me all along. He still is.”

“If he’s not dead.”

“I would not wager on it.”

“You don’t think that was him in the car with Taki?”

“I have only secondhand reports, but the description, presumed age, everything I’ve been told sounds wrong.”

“I should have gone out there to identify him. Sotir hustled me onto the plane, didn’t want me mixed up with any investigation.”

“He was right. They might have held you for days, weeks.”

“At least we’d know.”

“Perhaps not, the body was badly damaged. I am glad you were spared viewing it. They will know for certain in a day or so-teeth, fingerprints. But it is not him.”

Andreas closed his eyes, pursuing his own thoughts. Matthew took another long swallow. He saw what I did not. What did Fotis see? What did Andreas imagine he saw? That Matthew could be coerced, or inspired, by faith? Was it true? Could one call these half-formed gropings, these awkward manifestations of awe, faith? Should he be ashamed of that? He was embarrassed now to think of his father before the icon. What had he expected, that the Holy Mother would reach out of the wood and smite him on the forehead, You are healed! Maybe only that the man would feel some of the mystery and joy that his son felt before the image. That the two would join in some silent communion there on the spot. Ridiculous.

“I wish I knew what the hell to do next,” Matthew said.

The old man looked him in the eye for the first time in many minutes.

“I have not dissuaded you from this hunt at any point. I have assisted you to the degree that I was able. True?”

“Sure. I was a little upset about Sotir, but he saved my ass, so I’m grateful.”

“Then what I must tell you now is to let this go. Two men are dead. Another in the hospital, another missing. This has become far too dangerous a pursuit, with far too small a reward. What would you do with the icon anyway?”

“Give it to the Greek church, as Ana Kessler intended.”

“Not good enough. Not a reason to die, or to put others at risk. She received money, and she is safer without the work. If she does not reverse herself, her story should protect you from prosecution. There is no reason to continue. Not to mention that the trail is cold.”

“What about the Russians?”

Andreas sighed.

“They are dangerous people. Information would not come easily. Chances are, they disposed of the icon days ago, if they ever had it.”

“What do you mean? Where did it go if they didn’t take it?”

“All I mean is that we have been underestimating Fotis.” Andreas looked hard at him. “I see I have made no impression on you. Does this mean you do not intend to give up the search?”

Matthew felt trapped, then suddenly angry, even furious, absurdly so. He wanted nothing more than to let this all go. It had frightened and sickened him. Why did it provoke him so to be asked to say it? I will let it go. Just say it.

“So the risk was worthwhile when you thought you might find your Nazi,” he said instead. “But now that there is no Müller, it isn’t. Is that about the shape of things?”

“The risk was never worthwhile, especially for you.”

“You’re asking me what I’m going to do. What about you? Are you going to let it go?”

“I want to know what happened to Fotis. If I can find him, I must persuade him to talk to me about old matters. I see now that this should have been my priority all along.” Andreas cleared his throat. “When I ask you to let this matter go, I do not speak merely of the physical search. I would like you to let it go in your mind, in your heart.”

A flight attendant marched past them to the bar, tall, blond, her professional smile replaced by an acute weariness about the mouth and eyes. She reminded Matthew of Ana.

“The police will be ahead of us with the Russians,” Andreas pressed. “That is where they have focused their efforts. I will make inquiries, and let you know what I learn. Would that help? Or would it help you more if I let everything go? There is your father to think of. The woman. These are more worthy objects of your attention.”

A hint of desperation had crawled into the old man’s speech. Matthew made fists with his hands, aware of his grandfather watching him. Why not just say it?

“The icon is poison,” Andreas whispered, hoarse with emotion, a tone so unlike him that it paralyzed Matthew’s anger. “It’s poison in your blood. Over and over this has happened; you’re not the first. You must cure yourself of it.”

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

Matthew stood quickly and left the table. Instinctively, he headed toward the rear of the bar, having no idea where the bathrooms were. He might well be going in the wrong direction. Let it go, give it up. Magic words. Why could he not bring himself to say them?

19

This was a bad idea, Ana thought. She had thought it from the moment the man on the telephone suggested the place, but it was only now, standing in the dim, cavernous nave of the cathedral, that it struck her just how foolish she was being. These underworld dealers were an eccentric lot, always concerned about safe locations. Her grandfather had dealt with a number of them, perhaps with this very one she awaited. That was the reason she was here. But they were not making an exchange; there was no reason for secrecy, for this Gothic, out-of-the-way location. Wouldn’t a coffee shop have done just as well?

The Cathedral of St. John the Divine was a lovely mess. No one would expect to find the world’s largest Christian church-short of St. Peter’s at the Vatican-on Morningside Heights between Harlem and the Hudson River. In true medieval fashion, work had been proceeding on it for a hundred years, was still not complete, and probably never would be. Ana couldn’t imagine the square towers ever outreaching Notre Dame, yet what had been achieved so far was remarkable. She always went the long way around in order to approach from the west. As she climbed the hill from Riverside Park on 112th Street, the massive, looming facade filled up the view, sunlight catching the fifty-foot rose window and every curve and adornment, the rows of larger-than-life saints made miniature by the whole. It might, as many right-minded people claimed, be a waste of money, but Ana understood the impulse to create on such a scale, to overwhelm the eye, to touch the soul with grandeur. It was a substitute for the pure spirituality that few could muster on a regular basis. It was made for people like her.

The broad, empty nave was large enough to seat an army. The aisles were lit by hundreds of yards of stained glass and lined with displays. As directed, Ana stood before the Holocaust Memorial, a fallen, skeletal figure stretched taut upon the ground. It was powerful but ghoulish, and after some minutes she felt a growing embarrassment at being made to stand there so long, as if del Carros were stirring up the darker rumors of her grandfather’s past by suggesting it. Simple paranoia on her part, no doubt. It was cold in the place, and Ana felt alone, more alone than she ever had before, and that was saying something. The emptiness of the church served to echo and enhance a hollowness inside herself. There were, in fact, a number of other people in the place, but the cathedral’s vastness swallowed them. She saw only tiny figures at a distance.

One of those figures was making his way toward her from the direction of the altar. Tall, or his leanness made him appear so, with short blond hair and spectacles over transparent blue eyes. Bland features, but a winning smile, which did not leave his face from the time he spotted Ana until the moment he stood before her.

“Ms. Kessler.”

“That’s right.”